Look around you. Look at the street you've just walked down. Look at the room you are standing in. And look at that amazing office that's yours now, a place where you could pass on your love of the written word to new readers—and, most amazingly, be paid for the privilege of sharing the world of books with others.
This was the fantasy world she'd spent her life wishing for. This was it. She had stepped through the looking glass and into the world of her dreams.
Would it last? Of course not. She knew she would eventually have to return to harsh reality. But for now, she was here.
And she would make the most of it.
"Can I help you?"
She turned to see a heavily pregnant woman coming down the aisle toward her.
"I'm not doing anything wrong!" she said defensively. "I'm just looking for something to read."
The woman looked confused. "I didn't say you were doing anything wrong. That's what we're here for, to help people find books to read. You can never have too many books, right?" Her smile was warm and friendly, and Teresa smiled back tentatively.
"Sorry," she said. "I was just startled. So are you the librarian?"
"I'm one of the volunteers. Kim Kelly," the woman said. "We don't have a librarian."
"I'm Teri Forest," she said, and the woman lit up.
"Oh! Our new literacy tutor. How wonderful."
"How did you—?"
"Pajaro Bay," Kim said. "There are no secrets here. So were you just coming in to get the lay of the land, or did you need something in particular?"
"Actually, I don't have a cell phone right now, and I miss having the built-in dictionary." She looked at the stacks in front of her. "Of course, I got distracted by the fiction section instead."
Kim said, "we do have an Oxford Unabridged in Reference, but that can't be checked out."
"Of course."
"But I think I can help you."
She led her back to the front desk, and pointed to several cartons of old books. "Donations," she said. "We haven't catalogued them yet, and I think I saw a paperback dictionary in there." She started to bend down, but then grabbed her protruding belly and thought better of it. "I'll let you search."
As Teresa looked, Kim kept plying her with questions about everything from her family, home town, and library science degree, to her tutoring experience. Teresa was glad Detective Graham had rehearsed her, and her answers seemed to satisfy the woman.
"So why did you decide to become a tutor?" she asked at one point, while Teresa was shifting the first box aside to search the one beneath.
"A tutor helped when I was hanging out at the library as a little girl. My father would drop me off, and I would just wander around, looking at books. And this woman—" she paused there, thinking of Mrs. Williams peering kindly down on her—"she kind of took me under her wing, suggested books for me, helped me sound out the hard words, all of that."
"How nice. That inspired you to pay it forward."
"Pretty much. So I took an online course and passed a tutoring test, and now I have this new job."
"And a degree as well," Kim said.
And Teresa remembered her fictional degree in time to casually add, "I thought the tutoring certificate would be a nice supplement to my degree. Here it is," she said, picking up a battered old paperback dictionary.
"So, since you are an expert, do you think you could advise us volunteers? Maybe give us a quick workshop on things to do?"
Teresa stammered out, "…well, I don't…," then she saw the eager look on Kim's face. "You don't have a librarian here at all?" she asked.
"No funds. We're working on that, but in the meantime we're making do. I'm sorry; it wasn't nice of me to jump you with a demand like that."
"I don't mind," Teresa said, sorry she didn't have the knowledge to help her.
She stood up from the floor and put the dictionary on the counter. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "the one thing I always do when I go into a library is ask the librarian to suggest a book to me. That leads me to new worlds I never would have found on my own. Maybe that is something you could do." Then she thought, "maybe even do some sort of suggestion board, where anyone can pin up a note of a book they love and why." She shrugged. "I'm just rambling, sorry."
"No! This is wonderful. What a great idea." Kim wiggled in her chair. "Ooh, I'm going to tell all the volunteers, and maybe we can get a board or something. Ooh, this is so good!"
Teresa felt a surge of pride. She may not have the degree she was lying about, but at least she'd made one good suggestion.
"So how do I check out the dictionary?" she asked.
"Oh, you can keep that. It would just go in the library sale anyway." Then she grinned. "You want my suggestion?"
Teresa laughed. "You have a book to suggest? Sure. I'd love it."
"Emily Dickinson."
"Wow. I've heard about her so many times, but I've never read her."
Kim ran—or rather, waddled—to the shelf and got the slim book of poetry. "Here." Then she handed her a form. "And you'll need a library card, of course."
Teresa filled out the form, wondering what the penalty was for lying on a library card application. She'd add it to the list of misdemeanors she was racking up.
When she left The Owl with her two new books she continued on, and saw that the very next alley had a pet shop on the corner. She'd found the Surfing Puggle, and it lived up to its silly name, with a giant stuffed Saint Bernard in the front window showing off the latest doggie fashions. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts, and he had a ukulele on a string around his neck. "Make some beautiful music this fall: 40% off all beachwear," read the sign in the window. He was surrounded by adoring fans of the tiny stuffed animal variety, each wearing a different sale outfit, and all gathered around to gaze up at him while Beach Boys music played over a loudspeaker.
She thought of the boy with the guitar at the community center, sitting off by himself and playing his music, as if not wanting to be part of the group, but drawn to it despite himself.
She knew the feeling of wanting to join in but being unsure where to start.
"Just start," she muttered, and went down the alley to find Robin's Nest.
Robin turned out to be absolutely charming. She was a model-beautiful African American woman dressed in designer silk blouse and trousers. Despite her aura of sophistication, she was on her knees on the floor of her office, making goo-goo noises at a baby girl with a halo of ebony curls and startling hazel eyes. The baby was giggling and grabbing at her mother's manicured hands to suck on the fingers.
"Nachausy!" the baby said.
"That's right," her mother responded proudly. "But you could say 'mama' as well." She looked up at Teresa. "Sorry. Be with you in a second."
"Don't be sorry," Teresa said. "She's darling."
Robin got to her feet, then picked up the baby to rest her on her hip. "She is, isn't she?" Then she said briskly, "you must be the new tutor. I'm Robin Madrigal."
"And this is?"
"Birdie," Robin said. "Linda Eugenia Madrigal, meet Teri Forest."
The baby cooed, then said "nachausy!" again.
Robin noticed Teresa's quizzical look, and explained, "our cat is named Chausette. Apparently I've been saying, 'no, Chausette!' so much that she decided that should be her first word." Then she said, "please have a seat. I'll be just a second."
She put the baby in a playpen, and then poured a cup of coffee from a very fancy-looking stainless steel contraption in the corner. "Foam or no foam?"
"Foam."
She expertly frothed up some milk, said the one word, "chocolate?" and then at Teresa's nod, spritzed in some sauce, swirled it, sprinkled it with cocoa, and handed her the steaming mug. She set a tray of cookies in front of her and then sat down at her desk.
Teresa took a cookie without looking, had a bite, found out it was excellent chocolate chip, and then looked at what she was eating. "Ugh!"
Robin laughed. "Avo
cado," she said. "If you substitute mashed ripe avocado for part of the butter, it makes the cookies healthier—and turns them green."
Teresa examined the half-eaten green cookie. "It tastes normal."
"Yes. And I live next to an avocado farm, so I have been trying every avocado recipe I can find. Woman cannot live by avocado toast alone."
"Book of Matthew," Teresa said automatically. "I read a lot," she added.
"Of course you do. How wonderful. And you're reading Emily Dickinson," she said, noticing the books. "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul…. That brings back my college English class days."
Teresa felt the thrill of discovery at the recited words. "I've never read her, so the librarian recommended it."
"How nice. You've already discovered The Owl then?" Then she must have noticed Teresa starting to droop. "You must be so tired after your trip. Drink your coffee and I'll get the lease forms organized, then we'll get you home."
Home.
Robin typed on her computer, and little Birdie burbled, and Teresa drank the wonderful coffee and ate a second cookie. On the desk were a couple of books, so of course her eye went to them.
First was a big coffee table book of pictures of all the cottages in town. She flipped through it, then set it back on the desk.
The other book was a paperback. "Oh!" she said. The title was Searching for Jefferson Stockdale: An Autobiography, and the author was Robin Brenham Madrigal. "You wrote this."
Robin got up from the computer. She looked a bit self-conscious. "Yeah," she said casually. She fetched the rental papers from the printer and gave them to Teresa to sign.
More misdemeanors, she thought as she signed her new fake name and gave her new fake references and wrote down her new fake college background.
"Is your book in the library?" she asked Robin, when all her lies were properly recorded on paper and she'd signed the statement swearing it was all true.
"They have a copy in the local authors section." She hesitated. "Are you interested?"
"Of course!"
Robin brightened up. "Do you want this one?"
"Really? That's great!" Her genuine enthusiasm must have gotten through Robin's shyness, because she happily handed her the book. "It's my very first book."
"But you wrote it yourself. About your own life. That's so great."
This elegant, sophisticated woman seemed to just blossom at the praise. "Please. Take it. I hope you enjoy it." Then she turned professional again. "I shouldn't keep you. Let's go to the apartment."
On the way out, they stopped at Stormy Knight Accounting, a tiny hole-in-the-wall office at the end of the alley. The door was open so they strolled in, to find a redhead in jeans and a pink sweatshirt hard at work on her computer. "Just a sec," she said, typing furiously.
The office's single window faced a garden much like the one behind Roi Soleil, lush with flowers. On the gravel path, a little redheaded toddler boy was stomping back and forth in rubber boots, crunching down weed trimmings.
"He's helping," the woman said, turning away from her computer. "Ron—the florist—has him crush the garden trimmings and put them in the compost heap. He likes the crushing part the best."
"He's adorable."
"He's cute as a button, to use the old-fashioned phrase," she said.
Teresa looked at him more closely. "His name isn't Caleb, is it?"
"How did you know?"
"I met his godmother on the bus here."
"Pamela! That's wonderful." She stood up and held out her hand. "And I'm Camilla."
"This is Teri Forest," Robin said. "She's the new tutor for the community center." Then Robin set little Birdie in a playpen in the corner of the tiny office. "Thirty minutes okay?"
"Yup," Camilla said. "And then you watch Caleb tomorrow, right?"
"Right," Robin said.
"Nachausy!" Birdie agreed.
It turned out the apartment she was renting was only another couple of blocks from the alley. But when they stopped in front of the grocery store, Teresa was confused.
"This way," Robin said, leading her to a steep stair on one side of the store. At the top of the stair there was just one door, helpfully marked as Apartment One. "There's no Apartment Two," she said. "Just this one." She tried the key in the lock, then swung the door wide.
It was a little attic room, all done up as a studio apartment. At the front end was the door and next to it a set of French doors that led to the tiniest balcony with an iron railing. That side overlooked Calle Principal.
The opposite end of the attic had a door to a minuscule bathroom, and next to it, a built-in bed, with drawers tucked beneath and a little casement window on the wall over it. "That faces the alley behind the market," Robin explained.
The side walls of the attic were only about five feet high, which wasn't a problem for Teresa, since she was fairly short, but for Robin with her model-like height, she had to bend over to point out the closet, the kitchenette with a half-size pink fridge and a scratched marble countertop, and then, on the opposite side, a plush sofa with a pink chenille bedspread on it. "I added the sofa cover because the upholstery is pretty ugly," Robin said. "If you want something else, feel free to change it. We can move out or change any of the included furniture if it doesn't suit you."
Teresa stood in the space, looking from the pink, feminine color scheme, to the French doors with floaty white curtains billowing, to the cozy nook where the bed waited. "I wouldn't change a thing," she said.
"Oh!" Robin said. "And the best part." She led her to the balcony.
It was so small only one of them could go out there at a time, but Robin directed her to stand on tiptoe and look toward the cliff. Between the rooftops and treetops and chimneys was the glimmer of the ocean, blue and beckoning. And when she tilted her head to the left, as Robin instructed, the little lighthouse island was visible, framed between the branches of a redwood tree.
When she came back in, Robin gave a final look around, then handed her the key. "So, you're all set. Be sure to call me if you need anything."
"I don't need a thing," Teresa said. "Not a thing."
Which wasn't exactly accurate. As soon as Robin had left, it occurred to Teresa that there was no landline telephone in the apartment. She ran down the stairs and caught Robin, who frowned. "I'll have to call the phone company and see what the delay is," she said. "You don't have a cell?"
Teresa shook her head.
Robin looked like she wanted to ask why, but was too polite to say it.
"Do you know where there's a pay phone?" Teresa asked her.
"No idea," Robin said. "But you can come by my office if you need to make a call."
"That's all right," Teresa said. "I'm sure I can use the phone at the community center."
She said goodbye to Robin and then headed back up the stairs to the apartment. She was on her own.
The first thing she noticed when she got back into the apartment was the box. A big mailing box, addressed to Teri Forest, Apartment One, Above Santos' Market, Pajaro Bay, CA. Somehow that address had worked to get the box here.
She had to get a knife from the kitchen to open the box, and then laughed.
On top was the little layered dress of mustard yellow with white sleeves that she'd pondered online for the longest time, before deciding she just couldn't afford it with her stipend.
Beneath it was the rest: all the clothes she'd considered, weighed over, wished she could have, before picking the three simple work outfits she felt would fit her budget.
There was a postcard at the bottom of the stack, this time of the lighthouse in the bay, with a note on the back: Thought you needed a few more things to get set up. It was signed Sandra Murphy.
She unwrapped all the clothes and hung them up in the closet, then unpacked her day pack and added all her other possessions to the mix.
She had put the birthday present in the pack during her walking around town.
Now she sat
on the fuzzy chenille couch, and held the present on her lap, and thought about it.
I always eat dessert first, the lady on the bus had said. Teresa thought about how she had always hoarded and saved precious things, knowing she'd soon be desperate and need them.
She looked around at all the riches—the riches of clothes and books and a safe home, and the riches of living in a wonderful town and having an amazing job, and meeting nice people and a cute guy who called her pretty without leering.
She tore into the wrapping paper, taking the chance that just this once, she wouldn't need to hoard the good things for later.
The book was The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler. Of course.
"The Long Goodbye is the best detective story ever written," Detective Graham had said one night when they were talking about books.
"Why?" she'd asked. "What makes it so great?"
"Not just his use of language, or his understanding of human nature, but it's the detective himself," he had said. "The character who drives the whole story: private eye Philip Marlowe."
"What makes him so special?"
"In a hard world, full of hate and cynicism, he still believes in people," Detective Graham said. "No matter how badly he's been hurt, he still opens his heart and keeps trying. He has faith."
They were both silent after that, and she stood at the window and looked out at the smokestacks for a long time.
Chapter Six
She napped for a while on the couch, then woke up with a start.
Food. She realized she hadn't eaten since a sandwich on the bus. No. Since the green cookies from Robin. She wished she had a couple more, no matter how bilious green they were.
She'd better get something to eat if she was dreaming about green cookies.
Convenient to have a grocery just downstairs. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed out.
At street level she noticed there were quite a few people walking in the direction of the ocean.
She asked a woman going by, "is something happening?"
The woman smiled. "Haven't you seen it? Oh, you should." The woman's phone rang and she turned away to answer it.
Sunshine Cottage: A Pajaro Bay Mystery Page 6
